Grand Theft Auto 3: Familiar Territories
by Peteman89
Summary: A sequel to GTA 3. A new organisation has worked its way into Liberty City and it is up to Claude to bring them down. Please R
1. Chapter 1: Having a blast

**Grand Theft Auto 3.2**

**By Peteman89**

Mr Johnston set the alarm on the bank, closed the front door and locked it behind him. He buttoned his jacket up to the top and put his brown hat on. He started off down the long, wet and very busy midnight street to his house. Not two minutes after locking up, he realised he had forgotten his briefcase. It was in his office, under the desk where he always kept it. He sighed and began walking at a faster pace back to the bank of Liberty City. He dug deep into his jacket pocket and pulled out the keys.

He found the right one and put it in the lock. As soon as he did, he felt an overwhelming amount of heat from under the door.

"_No, not a fire!_" he thought.

He was right. No, not a fire.

The bomb erupted a second later, tearing through the door and windows, blowing brick and glass across to the other side of the road. Black flame emerged and spread up the building. Mr Johnston was thrown in seven different directions as his entire was body was ripped apart in a second.

People began screaming loudly and rushed to the scene only to find debris and a damaged brown hat lying on the concrete. What they failed to notice were two men, dressed only in black and clutching two briefcases each full of two million dollars, jumping out a side window. They dashed down the nearest alley and ran like hell to the end. They stopped and laid the briefcases down before ripping off their black clothes, exposing the smart business suits underneath. The black man poured a small bottle of gasoline, which had been stored in his pocket, over his clothes and dropped a lighter on them. They burst into flame. The younger man did the same.

They both walked calmly around the corner of the alley, briefcases in hand, and out into the street, heading the complete opposite direction of the enormous crowd of people who were rushing towards the bank. Despite the rain and the fact that it was midnight, they brought out pairs of sunglasses from their breast pockets and put them on.

They turned onto the main street and walked along the road until they turned into a small area, cut off from the street and into the small building at the far end.

"Shit man, these briefcases are heavy…" the black man said and laid it down on the bed.

"Yeah. But at least I know how heavy two million dollars is" the smaller guy laughed.

The black man took off his sunglasses and peered out of the window, just in case they were spotted. Satisfied they had got away with it; he sighed in relief and threw his sunglasses on the table by the door. He walked over to the fridge and opened it to find three slices of bread, half a bottle of mouldy milk and, fortunately for him, two beers.

"Claude" he said.

The smaller man looked up from the briefcase he was staring happily at and caught the cold can of beer as it was thrown to him.

"All right, I gotta go get some new clothes from Staunton. I'll be back in an hour"

The black man nodded and took his tie off. It had been a long day but four million dollars in stolen cash had made up for it.

Claude walked out the side door which led straight to the garage and got in his parked Stinger. The garage door raised itself up and he reversed out. He turned the car out of the hideout and sped off round the corner towards the bridge to Staunton Island. He passed three fire trucks which were darting off towards Liberty City bank. Claude smirked slightly and turned on Head Radio.

He passed the brand new 'You are leaving Portland' neon sign on his way across the bridge only to be met with the more welcoming 'Welcome to Staunton Island' neon sign about thirty seconds later.

Claude pulled the Stinger up to the only clothes shop he had ever shopped in. He knew the owner. Hell, he'd saved the owners ass about three times this year alone. The stupid shit was running a drugs warehouse just across the street and the cops had smelt a rat from day one. Claude had paid to have them taken care of but new guys kept getting assigned to the job. The owner of the shop got to his warehouse through a tunnel which had been built for him in the cellar. It crossed the street, secretly, and opened up in the basement of the warehouse.

Claude walked up to side door in the alley and knocked 'the secret knock' which had always sounded to Claude like a clap at a football game. The stoned shop owner peered out through the slit in the door and grinned widely.

"Claude! My man! How've you been, hombre?" he asked as he opened the door in that annoying Latino accent.

Claude put on a fake smiled and hugged him.

"You want clothes, eh?"

Claude nodded.

"But why? Look at these clothes! You look like the president"

"It's a loan from a friend" Claude replied and walked passed the owner into the smelly, dark shop.

Claude picked out some clothes and stuffed them in a garbage bag. He reached into his back pocket and brought out his wallet. He threw a fifty at the owner and walked off.

"Hey! Thanks, amigo"

Claude raised his hand in acknowledgement and walked out to his car. He opened the trunk, but there was no room for his clothes. There were enough guns for a small army packed in there. He dropped the garbage bag and put the two pistols into his inside jacket pockets and the clips into his back pocket. He put the two Desert Eagles into the holsters under his jacket and tossed the four AKs into the passenger seat.

Now he put the bag in. He did so and closed the trunk, hard. Claude got back in the Stinger and drove off to Cluckin' Bell. A branch had finally opened up in Liberty City after its years of success across the country and Claude had been their first customer when they opened up here.

He parked in the parking lot. Thankfully, Cluckin' Bell was open 24 hours giving the people of Liberty City a chance to get a 'Good mothercluckin' burger' any time of the day. Claude stepped out of the rain into the bright, empty eatery and walked up to the counter. He was followed there by some god awful song that some idiot had probably put on on purpose to drive away customers and then ran off himself.

Claude sat down after ten minutes of waiting for a burger, fries and a 'Mystery Milkshake'. The 'Mystery Milkshake' was made up to attract more customers with its mysterious taste. Claude didn't know what was in it but it was one damn good milkshake. Sometimes he thought he was the only one keeping this branch up because he hardly ever saw anyone here.

He finished his unhealthy meal and walked slowly back to his car. He reached for his keys as he walked but was blinded by headlights. A Rumpo burst out from the shadows and Claude was grabbed by the collar from someone in the passenger side. He was dragged along the ground at forty miles an hour before being pulled inside by more passengers in the back.


	2. Chapter 2: Kidnapped

**Grand Theft Auto 3 Two**

**By Peteman89**

Claude's first reaction was that of confusion. Maybe it was something in that milkshake… As it would happen, he really had been kidnapped and thrown into a truck.

Three bulky men were in the back of the van. They threw Claude against the side and they sat down opposite him. Claude put his hand on his back to check for inevitable bleeding and sure enough he had scrapes and grit all over his back. The back of his suit was torn to shit and what remained of it was hanging by his sides.

"What do you want?" he asked, not so sure he would get an answer. It didn't look like these guys had been paid to talk.

The driver glanced up at Claude through the rear view mirror and then watched the road again.

The car skidded round a corner and Claude was thrown into the men. He punched one of them in the nose as he was thrown. He yelped slightly in pain whilst the other two grabbed his collar and threw him back to his original position. The men then tended to their partner's injury.

Claude watched and crossed his arms, his hands fingering his Desert Eagles. Did they know he had guns? Well even if they did, it was too late now. Claude brought his arms out quickly with a gun in each hand and fired as many times as he could.

The men's chests exploded with blood and they recoiled in pain without knowing it. They were dead. The driver threw the steering wheel around and the car turned quickly and flipped over onto its side and it toppled onto all sides.

Claude and his recent kills were tossed around the back like rag dolls before the van finally came to a stop with its wheels facing the sky. The driver, being the only one with a seatbelt on, was still alive and with minimal injuries and made his way into the blood-caked back.

Claude lay at the back, he had cuts all over his face and he was pretty sure his collar bone was broken. His guns were still in his hands, however, and he raised his one good arm at the driver. The bullet got his shin, probably hurt like a bitch but this guy was bigger than the other three, he was a walking tank.

He kicked Claude's Desert Eagle out of his hand and then pushed his chest hard, forcing him out the doors at the back.

Claude fell on his back hard in the pouring rain. The driver got out of what was left of the truck and grabbed Claude's collar. He hoisted him up in the air and threw him against the van. He spoke in a low husky and very threatening voice.

"Listen to me you little shit, don't you fucking do that again or I will kick seven shades of shit out of you. It is just a pity that my boss wants to see you; otherwise you'd be dead by now" he said and head butted Claude, probably breaking his nose.

Claude howled in pain and grabbed at his face with his one good arm. The driver did it again, this time knocking the lights out of Claude.

When he woke up, he was unable to move. He could feel the freezing rain running off his head and down his neck, reaching a base point just above his waist. He groaned and opened his eyes. They were bruised on account of his brand new broken nose but he held them open regardless.

He was staring at some very nice shoes. Black leather, neat laces and some sort of unique stitching pattern up the side.

"Nice of you to join us, boy" someone above the shoes said.

Claude didn't recognise the voice but did recognise the accent. Italian-American. Great, just what he needed. More Italian-American gangsters tearing up Liberty.

He decided to look up at the owner of those nice shoes. A grey-haired man was staring down at him. He was about 6"0 and wore a smart business suit. Claude instantly though of Salvatore Leone. From the shoes and suit Claude could tell this guy was loaded.

"What do you want with me?"

"Oh not much, my boy. Just this city" he announced, turning away from Claude and looking over the skyline of Staunton Island, "This fine city".

Why the hell was he outside and so high up? What did they want with him? It was then that Claude heard the sea roaring about behind him.

"This city, my boy, is the centre of business for these United States. More money goes through hear than you could imagine. For example, two thieves just stole four million from a bank over on Portland not two hours ago"

Claude smirked.

"You know, my boy, I followed your doings in Liberty City these past few years. You've been quite busy haven't you? I'd be willing to bet that that suit you got yourself there cost a pretty penny"

"So? What do you want from me?"

"Your empire. I'll be going to collect it now from that little hideout you have in Portland. I happen to know you are paying off more cops than items of food. You own around thirty-four percent of 'Head Radio' and under your bed in your hideout; you are hiding at least a billion dollars in stolen cash and I want it, I want it now. I'll finally be able to get a foothold in this miserable, cheating world thanks to you"

"I'd like to see you try, Mr…?"

"Frank. Frank Leone. I know what you did to my brother you fucking little…messenger!" Leone shouted and put his foot on Claude's chair, right beside his crotch. "Have fun now at the bottom of the sea you little prick!" he shouted and kicked hard.

Claude's chair toppled backwards. He his head off the ground and bounced over the cliff. His leg connected with a rock about ten feet down and it broke.

He screamed in pain but it was muffled by the roaring, raging sea as he plunged in.


	3. Chapter 3: Getting Personal

**Grand Theft Auto 3: Familiar Territories**

**By Peteman89**

_Note: Hi. As you may have noticed, the titles for the first three chapters are different. This is because I was stuck for a title. The title you see above you will be the title from now on._

**Chapter 3: Getting Personal**

Struggling to escape his ropes, Claude was dragged further down and out to sea. His leg hurt like hell as did his arm. He moaned and fought back the urge to open his mouth and scream out.

He wriggled his shoulders which only added to the pain, but a little pain would be a small price to pay if he wanted to live.

Claude could still see the shore pretty well and kicked as hard as he could to get some oxygen. He fought hard and wriggled his shoulders again, somehow hoping that his arms would suddenly come free. Beginning to feel drowsy, he swam harder and through his chest upwards, battling against the waves. His stomach choked, he needed air.

As hard as he could, Claude thrust his shoulders and chest up once last time, and suddenly his arms began to loosen. He got a second wind and groped at the ropes. His bad arm popped free and, despite the terrible pain, yanked the ropes off of his other arm.

Now he was deep. He bit the inside of his lip and pushed off upwards from rock by his feet and kicked as hard as he could. Claude could feel his lungs tightening up and he kicked as hard as he could, rocketing himself to the surface. He tore through it and gasped in tremendous effort. Claude felt his lungs fly back into action and he breathed as much as he could. His breathing got faster and faster and he felt drowsy again.

He breathed once more, but it seemed like more of a sigh of relief. Claude let his head lie back and he passed out on top of the waves with the rain falling all around him.

Twenty-six hours later, Claude opened his eyes. He was hit by a tremendous white light and immediately closed his eyes again. He moaned and turned away but got a pain up his arm and onto his shoulder. He moaned more and returned to his original position. It was then that he heard the beeping. All around him he could hear beeping.

Claude carefully opened his eyes. From where he was he could see more white. The white looked like blankets. He felt what he was lying on and was met with the comforting feeling of a bed.

Opening his eyes further, he could see the beeping. It was coming from machines all around him. One of them had a funny green line which produced little spikes regularly. Another had 'Breathing Rate' and 'Heart Pressure' labelled on it. This machine was connected to a small, blue plastic nut shell which was attached to his finger. He went to pull the shell off when a curtain in front of him was pulled open and a nurse strode in. He stopped and raised her eyebrows when she saw Claude's open eyes looking back at her.

"Ah, you're awake" she said sweetly

Claude swallowed painfully and asked, "Where am I?"

"Shoreside Vale General Hospital" she replied and walked over to the machines surrounding Claude. She produced a clip board from behind her and made notes.

"How…long have I been here? Nurse…?"

"It's Green. Nurse Green and you've been here for abooooooout…" she emphasised the last word as she fumbled for her watch, "twenty-six hours and…twenty-seven minutes"

Claude gasped quietly. Leone said he'd be going to the hideout.

Claude groaned and sat up.

"And where do you think you are going? You've had a nasty accident, you need to rest"

"But-"Claude argued but he was interrupted.

"No 'buts'" she said and gently put his back against the pillows again.

He sighed and closed his eyes again. Nurse Green walked to the curtain.

"I'll come and check on you in an hour, okay?"

Claude grunted in agreement and rested his head. He heard the curtain close and Nurse Green's footsteps walk of into the unknown.

Claude's eyes shot open and he sat up again, trying to keep as quiet as possible. His clothes were on a chair beside the bed. They had been washed, dried and left on the chair. Probably to give some colour to the unnaturally clean smelling ward and the seemingly acres of white.

Claude pulled the covers aside. The leg that he hurt was exposed. It was ripped up and looked mangled lying there in a support at the end of the bed. Claude's arm was in a sling so with his one good arm, he escorted his leg from the bed, lightly to the floor. He bit his lip and tried not to make a sound. He stood on his good leg and fetched his underwear.

He put them on and then proceeded to put on his trousers, which proved difficult as he tried to pull his trousers, with one arm, over the support which stretched from the thigh of his left leg to just past the ankle. Suddenly he heard talking just outside his bed area.

"…Yeah I've just got to see this patient" someone said

Claude froze. The talking continued but a lot quieter. It ended with a roar of laughter and then the curtain for the bed next to his was pulled back.

He sighed and got his shirt. He threw it over his broken left collar bone and his right arm through the other sleeve. After about five minutes, he managed to button up most of the buttons except the top two. He put his jacket on and stuffed the tie into his right pocket. He bent down and slipped his right shoe on and put the left one in his left pocket.

Claude heard the voices again. This time they were talking to the patient.

"…You rest that leg, now" the voice from before said.

He heard the talking and laughing fade as the two people walked off.

Claude hopped quietly over to the curtain that he shared with the bed next to his. He peered round at the patient.

A fat man, about fifty years old lay in bed. He looked to be covered in sweat and had a broken leg. Claude spied a crutch close to where he was standing. He held his breath and reached in to the fat man's bed area. His fingertips touched the crutch and he tipped it towards him. He caught it and carefully lifted it up over the machines and into his bed area.

The fat man began snoring and Claude smiled for the first time since before his 'accident'. He pulled back his own curtain and hopped out with his brand new crutch.

Claude hobbled over to the elevator at the far end of the ward, being careful that he wasn't spotted. He went it and hit 'Ground'. The elevator hummed and began its descent to the ground floor.

The doors pinged open to a virtually empty reception area. Claude smirked. More luck. He went out the elevator and towards the large automatic doors and the end of the reception desk. They opened and he went out into the cool early morning air.

He had to get to his hideout. 8-Ball would be in danger, or had been in danger. Claude limped past the ambulances. He remembered that there was usually a police car outside the station across the road. Again he smiled when he spotted it.

Claude approached the door, made sure no one was watching him and then pulled the door. It opened.

"_These police really have to learn to lock doors_" he thought and then threw his crutch over to the passenger side.

He turned the key and the car purred to life. Claude hit the accelerator and flew off towards the bridge to Staunton Island.

A minute later and the tall, white buildings of Francis International Airport came into view. Claude drove past it and onto the bridge. He could hear the ringing of the warning bell as the bridge was about to rise up, for reasons unknown to Claude. He was fifty feet away when the bridge hummed and began to move up. Claude threw the steering wheel to the right and hit the raised part of the wall.

The car went up and bounced sideways onto the raised section. Claude kept going and then off the end of the raised section. The car's direction changed to vertical as it plummeted off and landed on its front. It bounced on the bumper and then flipped over onto its wheels. Claude tried hard to keep the car under control and it finally stopped swerving.

He flew around the bend and notched the speed up to seventy miles per hour. He pulled the handbrake and turned. The police car skidded around the corner and was now facing the Callaghan Bridge. Claude hit the accelerator again and sped off across the bridge.

He turned left at the bottom of the bridge in Portland and flew through Chinatown. Claude turned right onto the main road and was now within a quarter of a mile of his hideout. He turned sharply into his hideout but then slammed on the brakes, hard.

The entire area was covered in yellow tape and there were a lot of men in hard hats. It was then that Claude noticed that his hideout wasn't there. In its place was a large black mould of debris. Claude stared open-mouthed and then opened the door.

"What happened!" he screamed at a man in a hard hat.

The man noticed him and came over.

"Fire, sir. Burned the whole damn place down and killed a man inside"

"_8-Ball…_" Claude thought.

"Sir? I'm afraid you're gonna have to vacate the area, this debris needs to be escorted out of here"

Claude looked at the man and then at his rear view mirror and he spotted the shiny shotgun which lay in the back seat. Cops always had shotguns in the back. He punched the steering wheel.

"All right! Now it's personal!"


	4. Chapter 4: The Package

**Grand Theft Auto 3: Familiar Territories**

**By Peteman89**

**Chapter 4: The Package**

_Two months later…_

Images and sounds flooded Claude's head. Two whole months he'd been waiting for a perfect moment to strike back and every single night since that day, he'd slept for little under two hours.

He was asleep now, drifting through a dream land of pain and fear. He could see himself being thrown off that cliff, he remembered that gut wrenching feeling that he'd let himself down. He remembered that fear he felt when he felt his lungs begin to collapse inside his chest. Then he imagined what 8-Ball was doing that night.

He saw him wandering around the apartment; a half drunken beer can probably attached to his hand.

"_Where are you, Claude?_" he imagined.

Then perhaps two or three cars would pull up outside. The headlights would shine through the window. 8-Ball would look out the window and see men coming towards the hideout. 8-Ball would probably grab that AK-47 that's on the rack above the door. He'd pull the door open and maybe, just maybe he'd get one or two of them. They'd fire back and he'd be dead. The men in the suits would dose the place in petrol and set it on fire, making sure they got the hell out of there before anyone came to the scene.

Claude began to sweat. Not that hot sweat, the cold sweat. The kind that's bad and slowly creeps over your body before you start to cry out. He threw his covers off and leapt out of bed, panting.

All he could hear was "_Where are you, Claude?_" Though not meaning to, it sounded as if it was all Claude's fault. He paced the empty apartment that overlooked the streets of Staunton Island and he began to think…

"_Now it was time. My wounds are healed and I've had enough nightmares... It's not my fault. It's not my fault…It's not…_" he said and fell asleep again.

Three hours later, Claude woke up. Three hours wasn't a sufficient time for any normal person, but for Claude it was bliss.

He got up and approached his cupboard. The only outfits he had were the ripped suit he wore that night or an old jacket and jeans. He sighed in disbelief and chose the street outfit.

Claude reached under his bed and grabbed the handle of a trunk. He let out a groan at the sheer weight of the thing as he heaved it out from underneath the bed and dropped it on the bed. The bed creaked and groaned, probably about to collapse.

Claude opened it and smiled at his collection. Forty-three different weapons were in this trunk, no wonder it was so damn heavy. He picked out two 9mm's out, checked the clips and put them in his jacket. As he did this, he heard a thud against his front door. He picked out a Desert Eagle and held it in front of him as he quietly stepped towards the door.

He snuck up along side it and peered through the peep-hole. There was nothing there but the filthy streets of Staunton Island. Still hiding out of the door's path, he reached over and turned the handle. He threw the door open and waited for something to happen. Nothing, not a thing. Maybe it was nothing. He peered around the door frame and spotted a parcel on his doorstep.

A little early for post wasn't it? The clock on Claude's wall said '12:10'

Claude scooped it up and closed the door, letting his gun fall to his side. He holstered it in his trouser pocket. The parcel wasn't very heavy but there was something sliding around in there whenever Claude moved. It was in one of those brown cardboard boxes that parcels usually come in. It had no stamps or an address. It simply said "Claude". He opened it.

Inside was an envelope, a blank envelope. He picked it out, revealing a phone underneath. He picked the phone out as well and tossed the box onto the couch. Claude opened the envelope and pulled out the folded piece of paper inside. On the paper was a number.

'555-1989'

Claude stared blankly.

"_What the…?_" he thought.

He turned and looked out of his ragged curtains to see if anyone was out there. The street was deserted with the exception of one or two cars driving past. But then again why wouldn't it be at this time in the morning. He crumpled up the envelope and tossed it away. He looked at the phone and then at the paper. Claude started punching in the numbers.

The phone was answered immediately. Laughing was heard on the other end.

"You're pretty good kid. God knows how you survived that, but you did" the voice laughed.

"YOU!" Claude screamed at the voice.

"You showed some real talent getting yourself out of that, my boy, but you can't escape everything" Leone said.

"…What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that all good things must come to an end. I can't afford to have scum like you around"

"Deal with it" Claude said blatantly.

Leone started laughing again.

"Say Claude, in my hand there is a remote. It's a big black remote with buttons on it, you know-"

"Get to the point!"

"Very well. I wonder what happens when I push this button. I'll have to find out…Say, Claude, what time is it?"

Claude glanced up at his clock.

"It's-"

He stopped short. The clock on his wall now read '12:08' and it was decreasing.

Laughing started up again from the other end of the phone as Claude dropped it and sprinted for his bedroom window. He spotted a shotgun in the box and grabbed it as he ran.

Behind him the clock let out a long beep. Claude dived, arms first through his bedroom window. Not two seconds later, his entire apartment let out a huge rumble and exploded. Claude was given extra push from the explosion and was thrown forwards, landing on his arms twenty feet from the building.

The force of the explosion tossed unsuspecting cars a full fifty feet in the air and threw glass and debris all across the street. The same street was then clouded by masses of black smoke and flame.

Claude gasped and he crawled further away from the building, resting against his wall. Screams began to echo through the smoke and flame as people rushed to the scene.

Using the shotgun for leverage, he stood up. He hobbled towards a small wall and clambered over. Sirens were coming. With his record, he couldn't be seen at the scene of a bomb site. That would arouse suspicion.

Claude was in shock. He was covered in dirt and was bleeding for various points around his body and he was pretty sure he had a concussion. The street was waiting for him up ahead.

"_Come on, Claude! Get the hell outta here!_" he could hear himself say.

Despite all the beer he drank throughout his life, Claude had never succumbed to a state of drunkenness, but what he felt now was pretty damn close. His legs felt like they'd been beaten with a sledgehammer and his head was pounding something awful. He stumbled into the panicked street and his legs gave way for reasons he couldn't explain.

All around him were the shocked citizens of Liberty City, being forced back towards him by the growing police response at the scene. Claude forced himself to his feet and ran out onto the road, flailing his shotgun above his head. He began to run at a taxi, but legs had other plans. They made him fall again and he threw up on the road.

Up ahead, a car was coming. He forced himself up again and aimed the shotgun at the car. He fired at the windshield. He didn't care if the driver was a man or a woman, that's just how he was. The glass exploded in a shower all over the street as the bullets ripped through them. The driver's head's had the same fate as the glass as it was torn apart and blown all over the car.

The driver's body fell on the steering wheel and the car swerved towards a lamppost. It connected and the car stopped. Claude stumbled towards it and yanked the door open, letting blood spill out onto the road. He grabbed the arm of the dead driver and pulled them out of the car. Claude tossed the shotgun onto the passenger seat.

He himself then got in and threw the car into reverse, the tires screeching and screaming as he did so. He stopped for a minute…

"_How am I supposed to drive if I can barely fucking stand?_" he thought, but tossed the thought aside.

It didn't matter if he could hardly drive, he had to, he needed to, it was time to get some revenge.


End file.
